His best information had come from the internet. He had discovered why so many terrorists had achieved so little. Now he understood how to do so much more, since his contact in Libya had explained to him the secret of ‘smart terrorism’.
Small terrorist attacks were doomed to fail. Blowing up a few people or a single building could be explained away as the work of a lone psychopath or a disgruntled former employee. They might dominate the news for twenty-four hours, but not much longer. A celebrity romance or a scandal on Capitol Hill would soon squeeze them off the television.
Larger terrorist attacks also failed. For an Oklahoma bombing, a Mumbai massacre or even a 9/11 to succeed, it could only ever be known about after the event. That meant only survivors would hear about it — the very people whom it had failed to break. It just made them ever-more defiant and patriotic.
American patriotism — the thought of it made Salah retch. They won’t be singing ‘America the Beautiful’ after this one…
Salah had studied previous attacks against New York: the attempt to destroy the World Trade Centre with an underground car bomb in 1993; the feeble bomb attempt in Times Square of May 2010. Even planes flying into the twin towers had done less damage to America’s financial system than a few greedy traders playing with hedge funds and derivatives…
As his contact had explained, the secret to successful terrorist attacks lay not in the devastation they caused, but in the future they forced people to imagine. Smart terrorism meant convincing the public that much worse was to come.
Salah looked across at his wife. She was sleeping soundly. Quietly he slipped out of bed and moved to dress in the very ordinary clothes he had picked out several days before: jeans, a white shirt and a workman’s fluorescent vest.
Careful not to wake his seven-month-old daughter, he pulled his newly acquired American passport and flight ticket from under her cot. He placed them in his daysack, along with a spare set of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving foam and a disposable razor.
He’d thought hard about whether to leave a note, but eventually decided against it. She would never understand what he was trying to do. Even if she did, she would never forgive him.
And there was a greater danger — any note might be discovered before he had done his work. Salah’s wife had been an American twice as long as him. Unlike him, she had taken seriously the mantras they were taught in citizenship classes. Unlike him, she had disowned her roots in Africa.
Salah knew, if she discovered what he was going to do, she would report him.
Instead of a note, he left behind his keys. He wouldn’t need them again.
Taking a last look at his baby daughter, still snoozing serenely, he walked backwards out of the apartment. Silently he closed the door behind him, pulling it into place with a click.
He walked down the stairs and out to his delivery van. Alone in the first light of the morning, he surveyed the vehicle, walking round all four sides to check nobody could have interfered with it. He examined the tires and looked under the hood to see the engine. Everything was still dirty, which was good: it meant the FBI weren’t on to him.
Finally, he climbed into the driver’s seat and, taking another look in the street to confirm he was still alone, he bent down to check the device. Still strapped in place above the foot pedals: the bomb remained untouched.
With a last glance at his family home, he turned the ignition key, let the engine settle for a few seconds, then drove off towards the centre of New York’s financial district. To Wall Street.
On test runs over the previous weeks, Salah had noticed the scars that still marked the walls on 23 Wall Street, the former offices of JP Morgan. In 1920, it had been the site of a bomb concealed in an old cart, led by a tired horse. The carriage had been parked by a man who stepped down and left quickly — some witnesses said he looked Italian. His hundred-pound dynamite bomb had killed thirty-one people instantly, with two more dying from their wounds.
Like the Italian Wall Street bomber of 1920, Salah would never be caught. But his bomb was different. It would not leave scars on walls, but in people’s minds.
He crossed the bridge into New York State, along famous roads clogging up with the morning traffic. He drove into Manhattan with the sun behind him.
As planned, the journey was taking him ninety minutes. Perfect. He spent the time focussed — concentrating on his driving, and being grateful for the money and advice he had received from his contact back in Libya.
Finally, he turned into Wall Street, trying to stay calm as his vehicle slowed to a crawl. He heard the horns blare and watched the taxi-drivers gesticulate against the traffic jams.
Then he smirked. The jam meant he had arrived at exactly the right time: in the middle of the rush hour, when the impact would be greatest.
Soon he was opposite number 23, the site of the bomb blast from almost a century earlier. Here he manoeuvred his van onto the sidewalk, turned off the ignition, and put his daysack on his shoulder. Deliberately, he didn’t look again at the bomb under the dashboard. He just stepped down, onto the tarmac.
He closed the door behind him, locked it, and pulled on the handle to check it was locked.
Then he began walking away into the morning rush of suited bankers, city traders, treasury officials — and all the cleaners, baristas and shop assistants who worked to support them in their jobs but whom Salah knew were paid much, much less.
He was a full two hundred yards away when he first turned around to check his vehicle again. Over the heads of the walking crowds, he could see it remained in place, and was not yet causing any alarm.
No one was on to him. His contact in Libya had been loyaclass="underline" the secret of the bomb had been kept.
So Salah pulled out his mobile phone, turned it on and waited for it to register a signal.
Then he dialled the number he had memorised. The number which would set off the most powerful bomb Wall Street had ever seen.
Three
The bomb dangled outside the second-floor window, which was now empty. Myles had to reach it.
He ran to the door underneath and grabbed the handle. It was locked. He tried ramming it with his shoulder — twice — but it stayed firm.
He looked up. The explosives were still spinning on the rope above him, out of reach. He wondered whether the terrorist could escape through the back.
Then Myles saw someone emerging from the house next door — an old woman. He rushed over. ‘Move away — there’s a bomb,’ he warned. The neighbour looked confused. Myles tried to remember his Italian. ‘Una Bomba!’ He gestured ‘an explosion’.
The woman put her hands to her mouth in shock. Myles grabbed her and pointed her towards the crowd of Embassy staff, huddled at the end of the road. Helen came over to guide the confused woman away.
The house next door gave Myles an opportunity — could he run through the old woman’s house to chase the terrorist?
Myles was about to try when the door beneath the bomb opened. He looked over — the terrorist was about to run out. Sweat covered the man’s forehead. Myles caught his eye again: this time he looked scared.
The man sprinted down the road, towards the American Embassy staff. He overtook his elderly neighbour, almost knocking her over.
Myles did the same, but turned to check the woman was OK as he rushed past.
American Embassy staff were blocking the road in front of the terrorist. Myles called out to them as he ran. ‘Stop him…’